And the rust on the sunburnt sod, That, ripe for the reaper, the barley Silvered the acres broad. Then certain among the people, "Shall make of his sword a sickle, Right sadly Saint Cuthbert listened; Then he dreamed that he saw descending Who heaped in the low-eaved barn LINN (LYN), THE RIVER. In the cool of the crispy morning, Ere the lark had quitted her nest In the beaded grass, the sleeper Arose from his place of rest; 103 "For," he sighed, "I must toil till the gloaming Is graying the golden west." He turned to look at his corn-land; And the stubble stood thick in sight: Had harvested all the night! Margaret J. Preston. Linn (Lyn), the River. EVE WATERS-MEET. (Recollection of Homer.) VEN thus, methinks, in some Ionian isle, Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile On briery banks that wondrous minstrel-boy; The sound and force of waters; and he fed Of the wakeful ocean, Poured forth that stream divine of mighty melody. Henry Alford. THIS LINN-CLEEVE. HIS onward-deepening gloom; this hanging path Over the Linn that soundeth mightily, Foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath That aught should bar its passage to the sea; Hung with thick woods, the native haunt of deer For opposite my crib, long years ago, Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream, Even this jutting crag I seem to know, As when some sight calls back a half-forgotten dream. Henry Alford. Liverpool. THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL. SUGGESTED by a very curious and interesting model of the little town of Liverpool, as it existed in the earlier part of the last century. A CENTURY since the Mersey flowed Unburdened to the sea; In the blue air no smoky cloud Hung over wood and lea, Where the old church with the fretted tower Had a hamlet round its knee. And all along the eastern way The grass grew quietly all the day, Only the rooks were black; And the pedler frightened the lambs at play Where blended Irk and Irwell streamed A century since the pedler still Somewhat of this might know, Might see the weekly markets fill And the people ebb and flow Since then a vast and filmy veil And gray the roseate dawn; Smoke, rising from a thousand fires, And the England of our slow-paced sires Yet man lives not by bread alone, — The answer comes in a sudden moan The human heart, which seemed so dead, Wakes with a sudden start; To right and left we hear it said, 'Nay; 't is a noble heart," And the angels whisper overhead, "There's a new shrine in the mart!" |